I just figured out that all if I had been doing my essay with the amount of inspiration and time I spent on making these rantings, I'd probably have had a less guilt-ridden 2-week break. Crap.
[End Transmission]
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Noctural Feeding Habits
I have a confession to make.
I have developed this strange tendency to suddenly wake up without cause and unable to sleep in the wee hours of the morning every now and then. This one of those nows and thens. Coincidentally, I also wake up hungry when I do so. Just as 1 + 1 equals a positive integer and the Star Wars franchise will remain a cashcow till Lucas buys the farm (on Tattooine, one guesses), I revert into my noctural predator mode. Unlike other nightcrawlers, those who prey on others out in the deep darkness, I prefer to recede to the confines of my kitchen. And the rabbits around here are too skinny anyway.
Thus, it falls upon what meager stores I have amassed (an oxymoron on its own) to provide me with sustenance. I'm not talking midnight munchies here; I'm talking full-scale dinner. If possible, a properly done one. If not, a half-assed (and half-edible) abortion of the culinary world would suffice. As it were, tonight I felt a subtle lust for...wait for it...flesh. Such carnal longing, such primal instinct! The other not-so-primal lust was for potatoes. Scratching my head and checking the fridge in a vain attempt to see instant meals which included potatoes and meat, I did the next logical thing (or illogical, if you're not me); looked for a recipe online. Then it struck me. Potatoes? Meat? An equation formed, albeit a rather simple and delusional one.
I have developed this strange tendency to suddenly wake up without cause and unable to sleep in the wee hours of the morning every now and then. This one of those nows and thens. Coincidentally, I also wake up hungry when I do so. Just as 1 + 1 equals a positive integer and the Star Wars franchise will remain a cashcow till Lucas buys the farm (on Tattooine, one guesses), I revert into my noctural predator mode. Unlike other nightcrawlers, those who prey on others out in the deep darkness, I prefer to recede to the confines of my kitchen. And the rabbits around here are too skinny anyway.
Thus, it falls upon what meager stores I have amassed (an oxymoron on its own) to provide me with sustenance. I'm not talking midnight munchies here; I'm talking full-scale dinner. If possible, a properly done one. If not, a half-assed (and half-edible) abortion of the culinary world would suffice. As it were, tonight I felt a subtle lust for...wait for it...flesh. Such carnal longing, such primal instinct! The other not-so-primal lust was for potatoes. Scratching my head and checking the fridge in a vain attempt to see instant meals which included potatoes and meat, I did the next logical thing (or illogical, if you're not me); looked for a recipe online. Then it struck me. Potatoes? Meat? An equation formed, albeit a rather simple and delusional one.
Meat + Potatoes = Shepherd's Pie
Having at least half a pound of mince meat (and half a teaspoon of good sense) as well as four potatoes taking root in the dark bottom of one of the kitchen drawers, I set upon the task with great vigor. That vigor was to last ten minutes, during which I managed to peel and dice all four potatoes and get the meat mixed and spiced. Upon reading the next set of instructions, my vigor was shattered. Beef stock? Flour? Eggs? I had not counted upon the use of ingredients I did not have and began to curse towards the ceilings (a psychological phenomenon otherwise known as denial). Also, I noticed that the meat in the mixing bowl was...less than adequate...for the task at hand. The pie was doomed. Nay, it was never meant to be.
My head spun with the options now left to me. Regardless of my decision, both meat and potatoes would have to be cooked, no bargaining with the dread ghost of decomposition. I could either attempt to create a potato pie with a garnish of pan-fried meat, or I could have pan-fried meat with a garnish of potatoes. Such a choice, heart-wrenching as it truly was, had to be made. Quickly (and while still chatting up people on MSN), I pulled the proverbial trigger. I made my stand. Stir-fried meat and a side of potatoes it would be.
I wouldn't dare bore anyone with a mundane description of how I cooked it. Instead, allow me to display this passage from the lore of O-Soe-Ma (Chapter MCXII, Volume XXII).
And thus it came to pass that O-Soe-Ma, the young general and amateur gastronomist, came upon a valley where two races lived side by side, neutral to each other. One was of beings made of minced beef, the other of potatoes. A species of mobile onions also lived nearby, flitting in and out of holes in the ground. Being a sly and crafty (though altogether bumbling) strategist, Soe-Ma saw an opportunity to bring both territories within his burgeoning nation-state's grip. Also, it was about time to feed the men.
Soe-Ma waited till nightfall, when the villages would be off their guards. Splitting his small army in half, he order one half to storm the mince village and the other to storm the potatoes. Show no quarter. Take every one of them, dead or alive. A glint of madness came to his eyes, and even his trusted captains shuddered. The man had done some strange things (including rumored fits of madness where he'd begin to sing and dance for no apparent reason in the moonlight), but this transcended all. To utterly annihilate two innocent villages in a five minute decision was, indeed, madness. But they too felt hungry, and watching the villagers all day only made them hungriers. The general smiled as he let his dogs of war loose, brandishing knives, peelers, and seasoning. His men would feast on the flesh of innocents, stain themselves with the starch of the unsuspecting.
There was no battle worthy of mention here, save a dispirited defence made by the few potatoes who managed to retreat to the village's stronghold. They lasted only an hour before giving up. For their insolence, they, as well as most of those who survived, were skinned alive and put into pots of boiling water. Those unlucky enough to still be conscious after the boiling witnessed yet another atrocity; their bodies were crushed and mashed till none would recognize. Weak cries could still be heard from within the bowl of doom as soldiers worked the mashing contraption.
The minced meats had no chance; they were taken from their beds and beaten, soldiers pouring the torturous seasonings all over their wounds with great relish. They were then taken and tossed into a contraption on the most twisted people could think of; a gigantic frying pan. Some pleaded for their lives, some fainted on the spot. All were doused in flammable olive oil and tossed in the sizzling den of metal. Their screams were drowned out by the sound of crackling flesh. It was all over.
That night, Soe-Ma's men dined on a special meal. Some felt horrible, others simply ate. The had literally dined on the remains of the defeated. The General himself tucked into his grisly dinner with great gusto, smiling all the way through. Truly, a monster among men.
Wow. I managed to put myself off something I already cooked just by reading that. Oh well. There you have it. Kind of. Not really.
Good night.
[End Transmission]
Having at least half a pound of mince meat (and half a teaspoon of good sense) as well as four potatoes taking root in the dark bottom of one of the kitchen drawers, I set upon the task with great vigor. That vigor was to last ten minutes, during which I managed to peel and dice all four potatoes and get the meat mixed and spiced. Upon reading the next set of instructions, my vigor was shattered. Beef stock? Flour? Eggs? I had not counted upon the use of ingredients I did not have and began to curse towards the ceilings (a psychological phenomenon otherwise known as denial). Also, I noticed that the meat in the mixing bowl was...less than adequate...for the task at hand. The pie was doomed. Nay, it was never meant to be.
My head spun with the options now left to me. Regardless of my decision, both meat and potatoes would have to be cooked, no bargaining with the dread ghost of decomposition. I could either attempt to create a potato pie with a garnish of pan-fried meat, or I could have pan-fried meat with a garnish of potatoes. Such a choice, heart-wrenching as it truly was, had to be made. Quickly (and while still chatting up people on MSN), I pulled the proverbial trigger. I made my stand. Stir-fried meat and a side of potatoes it would be.
I wouldn't dare bore anyone with a mundane description of how I cooked it. Instead, allow me to display this passage from the lore of O-Soe-Ma (Chapter MCXII, Volume XXII).
And thus it came to pass that O-Soe-Ma, the young general and amateur gastronomist, came upon a valley where two races lived side by side, neutral to each other. One was of beings made of minced beef, the other of potatoes. A species of mobile onions also lived nearby, flitting in and out of holes in the ground. Being a sly and crafty (though altogether bumbling) strategist, Soe-Ma saw an opportunity to bring both territories within his burgeoning nation-state's grip. Also, it was about time to feed the men.
Soe-Ma waited till nightfall, when the villages would be off their guards. Splitting his small army in half, he order one half to storm the mince village and the other to storm the potatoes. Show no quarter. Take every one of them, dead or alive. A glint of madness came to his eyes, and even his trusted captains shuddered. The man had done some strange things (including rumored fits of madness where he'd begin to sing and dance for no apparent reason in the moonlight), but this transcended all. To utterly annihilate two innocent villages in a five minute decision was, indeed, madness. But they too felt hungry, and watching the villagers all day only made them hungriers. The general smiled as he let his dogs of war loose, brandishing knives, peelers, and seasoning. His men would feast on the flesh of innocents, stain themselves with the starch of the unsuspecting.
There was no battle worthy of mention here, save a dispirited defence made by the few potatoes who managed to retreat to the village's stronghold. They lasted only an hour before giving up. For their insolence, they, as well as most of those who survived, were skinned alive and put into pots of boiling water. Those unlucky enough to still be conscious after the boiling witnessed yet another atrocity; their bodies were crushed and mashed till none would recognize. Weak cries could still be heard from within the bowl of doom as soldiers worked the mashing contraption.
The minced meats had no chance; they were taken from their beds and beaten, soldiers pouring the torturous seasonings all over their wounds with great relish. They were then taken and tossed into a contraption on the most twisted people could think of; a gigantic frying pan. Some pleaded for their lives, some fainted on the spot. All were doused in flammable olive oil and tossed in the sizzling den of metal. Their screams were drowned out by the sound of crackling flesh. It was all over.
That night, Soe-Ma's men dined on a special meal. Some felt horrible, others simply ate. The had literally dined on the remains of the defeated. The General himself tucked into his grisly dinner with great gusto, smiling all the way through. Truly, a monster among men.
Wow. I managed to put myself off something I already cooked just by reading that. Oh well. There you have it. Kind of. Not really.
Good night.
[End Transmission]
Monday, August 27, 2007
Oh, Them Halcyon Days
It’s funny. I’ve spent so long not thinking about home, and all it takes for me to feel a little pang of longing is looking at my old highschool’s website. Strange how memories of a place that is no longer the same for me affects me more than images and conversations with people from home. It’s as if the whole notion of home is overshadowed by that of friendship and camaraderie. Not that I see home is unimportant, that is. But home is something I…well…go home to. And hopefully will always be able to return to. On the other hand, highschool was different. Those were days of close-knit companionship, first loves, and thinking of little else. Back home, most thoughts were of either going abroad or looking forwards (or dreading) to a new day filled with fun and misadventures.
Yes, I do miss my highschool. Not so much the school and the studies themselves, but the people who were part of my experience. My friends, for sure. I found that friendship can be as thick as blood (though not as thick as my skull, at most times) and lasting friendships can be forged out of the fires of rivalry and hardship. My best friends, more like real brothers and sisters than simple friends. My juniors, those who saw me as less of a senior and more of a big-brother figure who was willing to lend a helping piece of advice or two. My film club comrades, people with whom I shared work, pain, joy, food, and the occasional bed. My teachers, who were there to teach and support me, in all their quirky little ways. Like Jacqueline Z. Cussen, the ‘Mother of the Revolution’ and year-level coordinator for the last years of my highschool. Truly a character straight out of a Shakespearean satire. And my principals…well, they were there, and they were always pretty fun to mess around with (like the time *some people* issued the fake announcements detailing uniform requirements…Ronald McDonald shoes, anyone?). In short, it was an entirely different world. And it still sticks to my heart like that piece of gum I stepped on earlier this morning stick to my shoe.
A testament to our glory days.
Alas, even if I return, it will never be same experience. My friends have gone, my juniors grown up, my teachers off to new horizons…even the buildings have changed and improved. And that was only a month after I graduated. So I can only look in longing at the photographs and smile as I read the online newsletters, all the while reminiscing the ‘good old days’ I once had. I certainly won’t forget them, but they’re just that; memories, and nothing more.
C’est la vie, shikata ga nai, and whatnot.
[End Transmission]
Yes, I do miss my highschool. Not so much the school and the studies themselves, but the people who were part of my experience. My friends, for sure. I found that friendship can be as thick as blood (though not as thick as my skull, at most times) and lasting friendships can be forged out of the fires of rivalry and hardship. My best friends, more like real brothers and sisters than simple friends. My juniors, those who saw me as less of a senior and more of a big-brother figure who was willing to lend a helping piece of advice or two. My film club comrades, people with whom I shared work, pain, joy, food, and the occasional bed. My teachers, who were there to teach and support me, in all their quirky little ways. Like Jacqueline Z. Cussen, the ‘Mother of the Revolution’ and year-level coordinator for the last years of my highschool. Truly a character straight out of a Shakespearean satire. And my principals…well, they were there, and they were always pretty fun to mess around with (like the time *some people* issued the fake announcements detailing uniform requirements…Ronald McDonald shoes, anyone?). In short, it was an entirely different world. And it still sticks to my heart like that piece of gum I stepped on earlier this morning stick to my shoe.
A testament to our glory days.Alas, even if I return, it will never be same experience. My friends have gone, my juniors grown up, my teachers off to new horizons…even the buildings have changed and improved. And that was only a month after I graduated. So I can only look in longing at the photographs and smile as I read the online newsletters, all the while reminiscing the ‘good old days’ I once had. I certainly won’t forget them, but they’re just that; memories, and nothing more.
C’est la vie, shikata ga nai, and whatnot.
[End Transmission]
One Evening
The young swordsman looks up, scanning the blurry faces which greet his gaze. He swallowed hard, hoping not to let his new subordinates know how nervous he was. In truth, he was slightly trembling; he had only come from a recent injury during training to be put immediately in the position of squad captain a few hours before the battle. Eight other warriors, standing gaunt and silent, were to be under his command, at least before the fighting broke out. Knowing that time was of the essence, he hurriedly tried to recognize his fighters to draw up an improvised plan of attack. He cursed inwardly for his poor vision; but even if his eyesight was perfect, he doubted his leadership skills would have sufficed for the sudden occasion. Hearing that the enemy were approaching fast, he promptly gave out his orders. Each nodded, and ran into position to greet the opponent.
There was silence as the opposition arrived, almost gliding out of the woodwork. Exactly nine other samurai stood in formation across their lines, each with swords at ready. Not a soul moved, not one noise was made.
Then they clashed.
One by one, the warriors rushed forwards to intercept their foes. In pairs they fought, swords shimmering in the last rays of the day. Battlecries and howls were flung at one another, both to discourage the enemy and cheer on tiring comrades.
Still standing in the rear, yelling out support to his squad, was the Captain. But even as he cheered, from the corner of his eye he could see several warriors already falling to the blades of their foes. Some lasted longer than others; some had barely begun to fight before they were slain. His heart began to drop, but he forced himself to keep strong. As Captain, he could not afford to let his men know he was afraid. It was then that he saw a sight that made his heart skip a beat. He had seen his adversary.
The one person he knew was in the enemy's squad, the one person he hoped not to meet. He had, in fact, set himself up to face the champion. His mentor. Curiously, he felt no further fear nor hesitation when he stepped out from the rear to meet his opponent. There was no turning back. There was also no way that he could possibly win against the person who taught him how to kill another. He took a deep breath as he went into his kamae. Faced with the realisation of certain death, one thought took precedence over all else. He would certainly not die without a fight. With that in mind, he roared and sprang towards the woman he called teacher.
His first strike was immediately parried, though he was able to close the gap between the swords in one bound. Face to face with his teacher, he was able to look into her eyes from under her helmet. He had no time to think before he jumped backwards, hoping to strike down the centre of her head while she let her guard down. But the blow was weak, and only managed to bounce off the helmet. Gathering his courage and strength for another attack, he roared once more as he leaped forwards, sword raised high. It was then that he knew he had failed.
He had jumped too far, and too soon.
Within a split second, his opponent had disappeared from sight. It was also at the moment when he he felt something slip between the right side of his stomach to the left side of his hip. A moment passed before he, still flying forwards, felt the searing pain. He landed heavily on his feet, still in the final position of the strike had it actually struck his foe. He looked down and saw the damage that had been done. His armor had been sheared completely through; where the metal parted crimson stains grew on his gi. He tasted and felt fresh blood trickling out of his mouth as his vision grew even worse. He noticed that there was no longer any feeling his legs, and toppled forwards. Everything became slow, and bright. His sword had long fallen from his hands, his face half-buried in the mud. His breath was shallow and ragged, and his mouth moved as if to utter words. Words which would never be heard by any other ears.
He gave a shudder, and exhaled for the last time.
The captain was dead.
The battle was lost.
There was silence as the opposition arrived, almost gliding out of the woodwork. Exactly nine other samurai stood in formation across their lines, each with swords at ready. Not a soul moved, not one noise was made.
Then they clashed.
One by one, the warriors rushed forwards to intercept their foes. In pairs they fought, swords shimmering in the last rays of the day. Battlecries and howls were flung at one another, both to discourage the enemy and cheer on tiring comrades.
Still standing in the rear, yelling out support to his squad, was the Captain. But even as he cheered, from the corner of his eye he could see several warriors already falling to the blades of their foes. Some lasted longer than others; some had barely begun to fight before they were slain. His heart began to drop, but he forced himself to keep strong. As Captain, he could not afford to let his men know he was afraid. It was then that he saw a sight that made his heart skip a beat. He had seen his adversary.
The one person he knew was in the enemy's squad, the one person he hoped not to meet. He had, in fact, set himself up to face the champion. His mentor. Curiously, he felt no further fear nor hesitation when he stepped out from the rear to meet his opponent. There was no turning back. There was also no way that he could possibly win against the person who taught him how to kill another. He took a deep breath as he went into his kamae. Faced with the realisation of certain death, one thought took precedence over all else. He would certainly not die without a fight. With that in mind, he roared and sprang towards the woman he called teacher.
His first strike was immediately parried, though he was able to close the gap between the swords in one bound. Face to face with his teacher, he was able to look into her eyes from under her helmet. He had no time to think before he jumped backwards, hoping to strike down the centre of her head while she let her guard down. But the blow was weak, and only managed to bounce off the helmet. Gathering his courage and strength for another attack, he roared once more as he leaped forwards, sword raised high. It was then that he knew he had failed.
He had jumped too far, and too soon.
Within a split second, his opponent had disappeared from sight. It was also at the moment when he he felt something slip between the right side of his stomach to the left side of his hip. A moment passed before he, still flying forwards, felt the searing pain. He landed heavily on his feet, still in the final position of the strike had it actually struck his foe. He looked down and saw the damage that had been done. His armor had been sheared completely through; where the metal parted crimson stains grew on his gi. He tasted and felt fresh blood trickling out of his mouth as his vision grew even worse. He noticed that there was no longer any feeling his legs, and toppled forwards. Everything became slow, and bright. His sword had long fallen from his hands, his face half-buried in the mud. His breath was shallow and ragged, and his mouth moved as if to utter words. Words which would never be heard by any other ears.
He gave a shudder, and exhaled for the last time.
The captain was dead.
The battle was lost.
Monday, July 30, 2007
On Oversleeping, Raw Fish, and Harry Potter
Question: What do the three topics above have in common?
Answer: Nothing at all.
If anyone really tried to deduct what's running through my mind when I write my entries, I'd suggest it's really a waste of their time. Now, on to the real post!
My oversleeping has become a dangerous habit of late. It's only been a month since I entered the semester and already I've been missing morning lectures here and there. I know the problem, and I know the solution. Breaking the habit, however, is a different matter. For those in the audience that know me, I'm a bit of a nightcrawler; Sleep late, wake late. Yes, I do realise that if I shifted that time a little bit back (say, 5 hours?) I'd have exactly the same time to do all my business for the day and still have time left over for quality me time. So that's what I'm working on, currently. That and getting to class on time. I still managed to get late to Friday's 9 am lecture even though I woke up at 6 (one of those mercifully rare occurrences that coincide with the arrival of the blue moon and motivation). So yes...time management's still the big issue. But I'm getting there. Trust me. These sleep-depraved eyes can only betray so much longing for a balance to the system. No, seriously.
I bought a kilo of raw fish last Friday. Why did I buy a kilo? I had no idea how much it would be, and I naively thought it would last in the fridge for at least a week. Contrary to my expectations (thought it's probably everybody else's), it did not. I managed to use four of the nine fillets and turned them into teriyaki-marinated grilled fish (had it for breakfat today...sugoi, ne...) on the weekend before checking them again this afternoon. To my surprise, it smelt fishy...-er than before. At first I thought it was the rotting vegetation that lines the veggie bin (I kid you not; nobody's willing to take responsibility for the marsh that lies within the recesses of our refrigerator) . Then I poked my hand in...and surprise, surprise, it was somewhat...slimy. Let me allow myself a short narrative in which our hero finds that his fish has, indeed, joined the undead.
As he reached tentatively into the plastic bag which held his marine sustenance, he noticed an odor most foul which seemed to emanate from within. It was a smell unlike any other, the smell of...death. Undaunted, whether by courage or sheer stupidity, he reached farther and farther within to grasp the true meaning of what lay within. A single touch warned him; a single, delicate touch of a dirty finger onto the half-putrid flesh of the animal. His stomach turned, though not from disgust; rather, from the hopes that his money had not been spent in vain. In desperation, he rammed his hand in, and drew out a single fillet of fish. It did not look as if it were in the throes of decay; it was still white, as white as it had been when he purchased it. But the trade of flesh had passed over the three days know as the weekend, and the bag had not been seen to properly. An opaque layer of fine slime covered the fish, and that too smelt foul, just like his laundry. Shaking his head and muttering in denial, he uttered the mantra he thought would work; "it's still safe to eat". But in his heart of hearts he knew that the fish was beyond saving. All five of them would have to be sent away, never to enjoy the ultimate sacrifice within his churning stomach. Yet, perhaps it was for the best of all that our hero placed the steadily decomposing remains in the trash can, whence they would be taken away and left to rot in peace. And after all, he was now a little wiser. Never again would he put fish in the fridge for more than 3 days.
Wow. I'd give J.K. Rowlings a run for her money with such superb storytelling skills (thanks, Nenek). And speaking of which, I read the last book. At the end of the book I realised three things. First, it ended the way I knew it would end...and come off extremely cheesy by doing so. I don't want to be a spoiler, but let's just say the best friends will become...ahem...more related to each other, and some character pairings seem to be the work of a clandestine (and rabid) fanfic group. Or maybe it was just Ms. Rowlings feeling 'inspired'. Second, it doesn't have Harry going all postal and turning into 'Dirty Harry' the Auror who blasts the living daylights out of every Death Eater he finds (although I do not doubt that a like-minded fanfic writer is typing away furiously with this idea as I write). Thirdly, I realised that I had wasted an entire weekend reading the damn thing while I should've gone and did my homework. Alas, such is my self control that the smallest distraction sends me packing off in another direction.
Still, I'm quite happy that Harry Potter ended the way it did. Unlike many an anime/manga, say, Dragonball or Bleach, both of which seem to head off into the horizon with the number of episodes and story arcs still being introduced to the franchise, it broke it off at the right moment. Sure, I'd like to know what happens afterwards (and I will not accept "happily ever after" as an answer), but I'll leave that to the rabid fanfic writers. Now, if I can only find some time to go at the end of the week, I should be able to procure more fish...and maybe hook me up with some more of that Samurai Champloo...oh, yes. Then it'll all be sweet as.
Ciao.
[End Transmission]
Answer: Nothing at all.
If anyone really tried to deduct what's running through my mind when I write my entries, I'd suggest it's really a waste of their time. Now, on to the real post!
My oversleeping has become a dangerous habit of late. It's only been a month since I entered the semester and already I've been missing morning lectures here and there. I know the problem, and I know the solution. Breaking the habit, however, is a different matter. For those in the audience that know me, I'm a bit of a nightcrawler; Sleep late, wake late. Yes, I do realise that if I shifted that time a little bit back (say, 5 hours?) I'd have exactly the same time to do all my business for the day and still have time left over for quality me time. So that's what I'm working on, currently. That and getting to class on time. I still managed to get late to Friday's 9 am lecture even though I woke up at 6 (one of those mercifully rare occurrences that coincide with the arrival of the blue moon and motivation). So yes...time management's still the big issue. But I'm getting there. Trust me. These sleep-depraved eyes can only betray so much longing for a balance to the system. No, seriously.
I bought a kilo of raw fish last Friday. Why did I buy a kilo? I had no idea how much it would be, and I naively thought it would last in the fridge for at least a week. Contrary to my expectations (thought it's probably everybody else's), it did not. I managed to use four of the nine fillets and turned them into teriyaki-marinated grilled fish (had it for breakfat today...sugoi, ne...) on the weekend before checking them again this afternoon. To my surprise, it smelt fishy...-er than before. At first I thought it was the rotting vegetation that lines the veggie bin (I kid you not; nobody's willing to take responsibility for the marsh that lies within the recesses of our refrigerator) . Then I poked my hand in...and surprise, surprise, it was somewhat...slimy. Let me allow myself a short narrative in which our hero finds that his fish has, indeed, joined the undead.
As he reached tentatively into the plastic bag which held his marine sustenance, he noticed an odor most foul which seemed to emanate from within. It was a smell unlike any other, the smell of...death. Undaunted, whether by courage or sheer stupidity, he reached farther and farther within to grasp the true meaning of what lay within. A single touch warned him; a single, delicate touch of a dirty finger onto the half-putrid flesh of the animal. His stomach turned, though not from disgust; rather, from the hopes that his money had not been spent in vain. In desperation, he rammed his hand in, and drew out a single fillet of fish. It did not look as if it were in the throes of decay; it was still white, as white as it had been when he purchased it. But the trade of flesh had passed over the three days know as the weekend, and the bag had not been seen to properly. An opaque layer of fine slime covered the fish, and that too smelt foul, just like his laundry. Shaking his head and muttering in denial, he uttered the mantra he thought would work; "it's still safe to eat". But in his heart of hearts he knew that the fish was beyond saving. All five of them would have to be sent away, never to enjoy the ultimate sacrifice within his churning stomach. Yet, perhaps it was for the best of all that our hero placed the steadily decomposing remains in the trash can, whence they would be taken away and left to rot in peace. And after all, he was now a little wiser. Never again would he put fish in the fridge for more than 3 days.
Wow. I'd give J.K. Rowlings a run for her money with such superb storytelling skills (thanks, Nenek). And speaking of which, I read the last book. At the end of the book I realised three things. First, it ended the way I knew it would end...and come off extremely cheesy by doing so. I don't want to be a spoiler, but let's just say the best friends will become...ahem...more related to each other, and some character pairings seem to be the work of a clandestine (and rabid) fanfic group. Or maybe it was just Ms. Rowlings feeling 'inspired'. Second, it doesn't have Harry going all postal and turning into 'Dirty Harry' the Auror who blasts the living daylights out of every Death Eater he finds (although I do not doubt that a like-minded fanfic writer is typing away furiously with this idea as I write). Thirdly, I realised that I had wasted an entire weekend reading the damn thing while I should've gone and did my homework. Alas, such is my self control that the smallest distraction sends me packing off in another direction.
Still, I'm quite happy that Harry Potter ended the way it did. Unlike many an anime/manga, say, Dragonball or Bleach, both of which seem to head off into the horizon with the number of episodes and story arcs still being introduced to the franchise, it broke it off at the right moment. Sure, I'd like to know what happens afterwards (and I will not accept "happily ever after" as an answer), but I'll leave that to the rabid fanfic writers. Now, if I can only find some time to go at the end of the week, I should be able to procure more fish...and maybe hook me up with some more of that Samurai Champloo...oh, yes. Then it'll all be sweet as.
Ciao.
[End Transmission]
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Reflections: Famiglia
I said I'd post something up about my family's visit, and here it is. Apologies all around for those who've been waiting for me to put something decent up (oh, how I love stroking my ego).
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How sweet. I must've been pretty high when that came around. Anyway, work to do, things to reflect. Next post...something completely different.
[End Transmission]
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It’s been almost a month now since the family came over for a visit, which this post is somewhat long-delayed. Well, better I wrote about it as a reflection rather than something half-hearted and asinine typed up in the wee hours of the morning. The inspiration happened to hit after today’s kendo session.
Simply put, I’ve been a part of, or rather made myself a part of, a whole collection of families. Just like anyone else, I suppose. There was always this strong desire for ‘family’, i.e. people I can love, trust, and grow up with. And at the top of that list is my very own family, which is my parents, my little (I use the term little very liberally here) brother and yours truly. Then there’s the big family, which is pretty much the families of my parents lumped into one unit. Moving on, there’s the extended family, which is the 50-odd (again, very liberal usage of 50-odd; I’m sure there’s at least that many cousins from my dad’s side alone). Not as close as the first two, but I still grew up in that setting and it gives me some attachment to the whole lot. Especially with the cousins, most of whom are growing up to be quite...attractive...ahem.
Then there’re the ‘external’ families. These are the ones I managed to acquire so far in life. Of these, three are deeply entrenched in my heart; my very own ‘family’, the film crew people, and my bandmates. My ‘family’ put me in as the eldest brother in a virtual family of 10, two males and eight females. I had a unit of my own as well, having two ‘sons’ and a ‘daughter’, juniors who suddenly started calling me ‘dad’ after a short while of knowing them. Funny how one can get so caught up in that kind of roleplaying, only to increasingly enjoy the interaction and finally accept the term as something real and tangible. As for with the siblings, we were a family in my head only, but my relationships to them were very much brother-like (me to them, that is). The old filmmaking club family is still very much alive, although the club has been long-defunct. Ours was a bond of suffering, joy, and long hours of random jokes (yes, that was all included in the package). To this day we still relive the ‘glory days’, and keep our support for each other strong. As for my bandmates...well, that’s pretty self-explanatory. We struggled together, made music that didn’t completely suck, and actually made a few public performances altogether. My relationship with my bandmates (the first two of my ten ‘sisters’, actually) was literally on the verge of turning into real family; true-blue, full-blooded kind of stuff where we’d stand by each other no matter what. And to some extent, that still holds true for us now, even with thousands of miles separating us from each other. In addition to those three, my fellow brothers- and sisters-in-arms as well as my seniors and sensei in the kendo club are becoming more and more of a family rather than just as individuals in a club.
So what’s the point of all that when I was just supposed to be talking about my family’s visit here? It’s just that I’ve always believed in the strength of family, and my own family takes centre stage. If you can’t find that by reading between the lines of this entry, then chances are I completely forgot to put it in. Come to think of it, I haven’t even put in anything about my family’s visit. Cripes.
Well, to be sure, here’s a short list of things that I learned during the family visit.
1. 1. As much as think I’ve successfully replicated my parents standards of hygiene, that belief was quite promptly shattered by the sudden inspection that came with the surprise arrival of the family. Lo and behold, the room which I deemed clean (I had just vacuumed the day before, and nothing was on the floor...apart from a few scattered binders and the week’s laundry) was promptly inspected and subsequently tidied up to the correct standards. Not that it lasted, really. Within a week the room returned to my interpretations of the standards, and I’m sure my parents understand (though they probably won’t let me off the matter so easily).
2. 2. My brother is no longer ‘little’. Not since I left, anyway. He’s now my height and a bit more. And he’s also managed to display emotions I thought were unnatural for him before (e.g. romantic involvement with women). Funny thing is, I never really understood him before. Now I understand him even less. It’s like meeting an old friend who you’ve known for so long after some time being separated. But that’s just my view. Ask my brother about what he thinks of me after being away for half a year, and he’d probably say I haven’t changed at all. Oh well.
3. 3. Parents = better food. For the first time in months, I had a steak (nearly choked on it, too). Not something that I had to cook for myself (and regret afterwards), but well-done, restaurant-regulation fare. Oh, Lord. If asked about my most memorable activity done with my parents, it would probably be stocking up on proper nutrients for the coming winter (competing for first place with hugs, though). I do believe that’s why I’m still standing (sitting?) in the midst of winter, laughing haughtily at the cold, cold wind and driving rain while other people are coughing like mad. Or maybe that’s because my heater finally works properly. Either way, it’s all good.
4. 4. The family in-jokes are still as funny as they used to be. My parents being who they are, jokes and laughter are always part of the conversation. Also, I hadn’t been able to crack any *cough*dirty*cough* jokes for about four months, so I was damn happy let loose the torrent of less-than-tasteful jokes I knew (or thought) my parents would enjoy. It’s these little things that really make being with the family so enjoyable.
5. 5. I miss the liberal hugging. I’m somewhat reluctant to give hugs to people I barely know; to me at least it’s as sacred and private as a kiss. I hold hugging in high regard; the people I hug and let hug are those who I believe I can trust and love with no regrets. Or those who need hugs desperately, but those are special cases. As much of a hugger I used to appear at home, over here it became apparent that I’m not as free in giving hugs to total strangers. Heck, the first non-familiar person to hug me over here made me hide in fear. I’m that paranoid of the consequences of surprise hugs. So I made the most of it when my parents came. Hug here, hug there, a hug an hour if possible. Call me crazy (or queer), but it’s one of the things I miss the most from home.
6. As much as I can make this place my home, my family will always hold a piece of my heart, and there is always a place for me to come home to (I hope). So here's a big, gooey, sentimental and love-filled shout-out from this end of the earth. You guys are the best.
[End Transmission]
Clocked: 10:30, Saturday, 21 July 2007
-----------------------------------------------How sweet. I must've been pretty high when that came around. Anyway, work to do, things to reflect. Next post...something completely different.
[End Transmission]
Monday, July 9, 2007
This Is The First Day...Of The Rest Of The Semester (Or: Guess Who Only Slept Four Hours This Morning)
Oh, my adoring _____. I _____ here before you ____ with my heart filled with ______. Alas, because of ______ I have found myself quite unable to write about my _______. Ah, yes. I realized the _______ of my words, for there is no assuaging your imminent _______. Therefore, I suggest that you kindly put your _____ up my ______.
Okay. Now that I'm done being an arse, I might as well start seriously.
The past two weeks have been...chaotic to say the least. A two week break after a semester of constant fretting and ulcers in addition to the re-introduction of my family to my life threw me back to stage one. Well, to be fair (and to make sure that my funding will not be subject to 'extreme budgeting'), it also had to do with a great deal of other things. New flatmates, new semester, new kendo rank...honest, Injun. Those two weeks have, in my mind, become an amalgamated mess transcending the laws of time and space. Not to mention my somewhat spotty memory. Some things have mixed with one another, others have been conveniently stored for belated embarrassment. But it has been a most memorable semester break, and I'm sure I remember the things that matter the most (which is a convenient way for me to say that I forgot most of it, but hey).
Thus, some of the subsequent posts will probably be frequently crossing the thin red line between nostalgia and fantasy. Or maybe not.
Hm. So much for wit there.
Anyway, the purpose of this post was to just to ensure anybody who's been reading this doesn't think I'm:
a) Dead
b) Lazy (but you're probably right)
c) Dead and lazy.
Agh.
Yet another lukewarm and half-hearted attempt for any real humor or intelligence. Never mind. I'll post back when inspiration strikes-
.
..
...
[Transmission Interrupted]
[Try Again Later]
Okay. Now that I'm done being an arse, I might as well start seriously.
The past two weeks have been...chaotic to say the least. A two week break after a semester of constant fretting and ulcers in addition to the re-introduction of my family to my life threw me back to stage one. Well, to be fair (and to make sure that my funding will not be subject to 'extreme budgeting'), it also had to do with a great deal of other things. New flatmates, new semester, new kendo rank...honest, Injun. Those two weeks have, in my mind, become an amalgamated mess transcending the laws of time and space. Not to mention my somewhat spotty memory. Some things have mixed with one another, others have been conveniently stored for belated embarrassment. But it has been a most memorable semester break, and I'm sure I remember the things that matter the most (which is a convenient way for me to say that I forgot most of it, but hey).
Thus, some of the subsequent posts will probably be frequently crossing the thin red line between nostalgia and fantasy. Or maybe not.
Hm. So much for wit there.
Anyway, the purpose of this post was to just to ensure anybody who's been reading this doesn't think I'm:
a) Dead
b) Lazy (but you're probably right)
c) Dead and lazy.
Agh.
Yet another lukewarm and half-hearted attempt for any real humor or intelligence. Never mind. I'll post back when inspiration strikes-
.
..
...
[Transmission Interrupted]
[Try Again Later]
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